Ted (merovingian) wrote,
Ted
merovingian

I saw the same guy in the overgrown soccer field by the park three days in a row. On the third day I said hello and asked if he always came here.

"Oh no," he said casually, "I'm just walking across this field, one step every six hours. My wife and my daughters bring me food and so on, and I've practiced sleeping standing up, so my sense of proprioception is keen and ready, just to be able to do this. I'll reach the other side of the field by August, I figure."

"Why?" I asked.

"Oh, I just retired and I have wanted to do this since I first won a soccer match here when I was in high school. Forty-seven years ago. Against the San Jose team, all league champions. We didn't stand a chance and something broke open inside me and I scored a goal in the last seconds that put us over the top. It was the happiest moment of my life up to that point; the moment I discovered the best part of myself. I could feel my blood, too big for my arteries. I felt like every step of that last stretch for the goal took hours, and I had to know what that would really be like. I've worked hard to build a life for myself and my family, but now I can finally do this."

"How is it?"

"Kind of boring," he admitted, "And inconvenient. But beautiful, too."

He doesn't seem tired at all, or in any rush. I guess he's been waiting for this kind of patience for a long time.

That's quite a way to move.
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